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Four Stories of Lost Love.

Artist, actor, poet, teacher, songwriter & actor with 4,000 poems & almost 1,000 songs written, performed recorded & published on line.

Losing love is sheer agony for one's heart and soul, even a tiny child suffers terrible setbacks when they lose two who they thought loved them.

four-stories-of-lost-love
four-stories-of-lost-love
four-stories-of-lost-love
four-stories-of-lost-love

Love can be a many splintered thing.

Lying Amidst Shards of Hope. Frailty, thy name is my soul, quivering on the brink of love lost, my heart hammers, a mallet on cold bronze she has spurned my beseeching seeking castles beyond my means somewhere in the lofty clouds above. I am but a common urn, holding the ashes of my passion. She is a Goddess with downcast lashes denying me access to her most heavenly eyes. I would fall on my sword but my heart is already torn asunder, thus I will vanish much like my spirit has faded. into the mere shadow of what was once a man seeking exquisite love and suffering cruel consequences. Dis-soul -lutions! The chapel contained only a long bit of ripped lace, and a scattering of flowers from a trampled bouquet, Someone had stood up, when the preacher asked if any one objected to the marriage of these two souls, and with a tear streaked face she declared, "Your husband-to-be is the father of my child to come." The bride took one look at her love, and saw guilt fleetingly cross his despairing face, and so she ran down the aisle, and as the groom tried to stop her, he stepped on and derailed the long train of her gown, the lace ripping with a loud sound, her flowers flung before her, and crushed beneath her white satin shoes, Long after the guests had departed, a janitor swept away the dreams of two torn asunder and life moved on less a couple of souls joined to one of it's most magical of moments. Westward Ho! Like a fox sneaking in and filching the best hen he crept over the hay strewn barn as moonlight lit a dappled path that led to the end of his forever He had taken a long ride on a short fuse, saddled to a black as coal night mare. His heartstrings lying severed like his spirit as he opened her saddlebags with his last act of wisdom. Then he gently placed the two carat glitter of a diamond ring and a handful of old love letters in the deep pouch. You see she had broken their engagement and now he was simply returning the pieces of all that was left Frag-Jill. Tiny wide eyed tot, startled by any approaching footsteps. Rubbing the cigarette burns on her arms, hugging a teddy bear dog chewed and worn, in rag tag clothes. She sits alone at the shelter, mom's been removed, because she removed herself from the tragic situation, whenever her babies screaming started.] It hurt too much, all those backhands and bloody noses as she tried to stop him from abusing what once was love and then he beat their baby anyway. Vodka was her tonic, and his fist her daughter's binky. Dad's in the pen, where all animals belong. If she was my niece, my pen would be my sword, stuck in dad's eyes. A sheer stroke of genius and rage expressed, justified poetry in motion. No human or humane jury would convict me. Soon she is tranquilized so that she can sleep. Every creak of the door, might be dad wanting more. Strapped in a bed, so that she won't fall, because she is now so fragile, her badly knitted bones are like glass sticks. Frag-Jill, beyond all limits of a two year old, and any more pain, might send her to a place, from which she will never return. Alas, she died this past Sunday, from a ruptured spleen and damaged kidneys, but now she plays under the wings of angels happily ever after, on heaven's sheltered shores.

© 2022 Matthew Frederick Blowers III

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